


Tim Marcoh: Male Gigolo

by Griselda_Gimpel



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Canon - Manga, Canon Compliant, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist Manga, Comedy, Crack, Crack Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, Dark Comedy, Dark Crack, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Het, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, I write serious fan fic too, Kimblee is the worst, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Sexual Humor, Slash, Suspense, Suspension Of Disbelief, This is crack, but not smut actually, but this is not serious fan fic, seriously just go with the premise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-04 02:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17890091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griselda_Gimpel/pseuds/Griselda_Gimpel
Summary: When Scar takes ill, Marcoh takes a job working for Madam Christmas. Hilarity (and a bit of horror) ensues when Marcoh finds himself experiencing a night unlike any he expected.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo is by no means a good movie, but it featured the luxurious locks of Oded Fehr, and it inspired this fan fiction. One of those things is unquestionably a good thing. As for the other, well, that's for you to decide.

                A month before the Promised Day, Scar and Dr. Tim Marcoh were scouting out Central City. They moved cautiously, keeping the hoods of their coats up and not making eye contact with anyone. They were identifying exactly where the points of the transmutation circle would need to go, so that this information could be passed on to their allies who would mark the points when the time came. During spare moments, Marcoh busied himself tattooing Scar’s left arm. His hands moved slowly and precisely, and he frequently checked Scar’s brother’s notes to make sure he was drawing the alchemic symbols exactly.

                “Ugh,” Scar groaned as Marcoh stuck the needle into a new part of Scar’s arm. Marcoh withdrew the needle as quickly as possible and looked up at Scar. The younger man was sitting on a crate. Marcoh had been half kneeling and twisted to reach the part of Scar’s arm that he was on.

                “I’m sorry!” Marcoh said. “I’m trying to be as gentle as possible.” The thought of causing Scar further pain made Marcoh sick to his stomach. For all that the tattoos were necessary, Marcoh worked with the utmost care.

                “It wasn’t that,” Scar said. Marcoh looked at him again. His face was sweaty, and there was an unhealthy pallor to it.

                “Are you feeling okay?” Marcoh asked.

                “I am fine,” Scar said. “Continue.”

                Marcoh did as he was bidden, but as the hour dragged on, it became increasingly clear that Scar was not fine. In fact, Marcoh would wager money that he was sick.

                “Let me take a look at you,” Marcoh implored. “You need to be healthy for what you have planned.”

                “Fine,” Scar said and allowed Marcoh to examine him. Marcoh didn’t have much in the way of tools with him. His tattoo equipment had been constructed via alchemy from broken bottles and discarded pens. He looked around the room they were in. It was a room of a condemned building in one of the poorest parts of Central City. There wasn’t much in the room, but Marcoh soon located the empty beer bottle he’d used earlier. He had previously transmuted the beer within to make sterile alcohol to disinfect his tattoo equipment, and he now used alchemy to make the bottle itself into an otoscope.

                Marcoh peered in Scar’s ears and checked his eyes. He looked down his throat and up his nose. He felt his forehead and measured his pulse rate and his breathing. He inquired if Scar felt dizzy or nauseous and “hmmed” and “haaed” when Scar admitted that he did.

                “What is it?” Scar nearly shouted eventually, his patience at being fussed over running out.

                “You’re sick,” Marcoh said. “I’m going to need to get you medicine.”

                “What aren’t you telling me?” Scar demanded.

                “The medicine is going to be expensive,” Marcoh explained. “I might be gone for a bit. For now, you need to get some rest.” Marcoh performed a thorough search of the building and returned with an assortment of discarded items. He transmuted a pile of disgusting old rags into a clean blanket for Scar to sleep on. A cracked bucket of mop water became a fixed bucket of clean water. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed during alchemy, so Marcoh transmuted the mop into a broom and swept away all the dirt and grossness that was left over from his transmutations. By the time Marcoh was ready to head out for the day, Scar was fast asleep.

                Marcoh stuck to the poorer areas of the city. Getting work as a doctor or an alchemist was completely out; that would draw too much attention to him. Instead, he found a restaurant that was just about to open for the lunch rush. He spoke to the proprietor, who agreed to exchange him some food and wages for labor. So it was that Marcoh spent the day with his arms elbow deep in soapy water, scrubbing dishes clean. He broke only for lunch, and at the end of the day, the proprietor handed him his wages and a bowl of soup to take with him.

                As Marcoh started to head back to the room where Scar was, he considered his wages forlornly. What Scar needed was mold. Even in hiding – during the years before the homunculi had found him – Marcoh had kept up subscriptions to various medical journals. The ability for certain molds to cure bacterial infections was an exciting new discovery. It was also not medicine Marcoh would be able to obtain easily. One of the research laboratories was located in Central City, but if Marcoh wanted to the medicine without any uncomfortable questions being asked, he was going to have to overpay considerably.

                Marcoh became aware that he was being observed. He looked up and around and saw a middle age woman watching him.

                “Not as much as you were hoping for?” the woman asked.

                “Isn’t that always the case,” Marcoh replied cheerfully.

                “I could help you make more,” the woman said. In the history of the world, a promise to make money quickly has rarely led to anywhere good, but the sooner Marcoh had the funds, the sooner Scar could recover.

                “In what manner?” Marcoh asked.

                The woman stepped forward and held out her hand. “I’m Madam Christmas. I run a business that deals in customer satisfaction, if you catch my drift.” Marcoh did. She was _that_ sort of Madam.

                “I wouldn’t think I would meet your employee criteria,” Marcoh said.

                Madam Christmas gave a guffaw of a laugh. “I like to have variety. Not all of my clients are looking for a short skirt and a nice pair of legs. Do you know why men come to my place of business? Do you know why they pay top dollar?”

                “No, ma’am,” Marcoh said.

                “It’s because they want their whims catered to,” Madam Christmas said. “If you’re willing to give ‘em what they want, you’ll have all of the money you need. If you’re interested, my front door is just right over there. Come back after you finish your dinner. If not, carry on your way.”

                “I will think about it, ma’am,” Marcoh said. He did think about it. He thought about it all the way back to the condemned building and all the time he carefully spooned the soup into Scar’s mouth. Scar’s eyes fluttered as he ate, but he only seemed barely aware of his surroundings. That settled it. Marcoh used alchemy to leave a note on the floorboards and then headed out again. He knocked on Madam Christmas’ door.

                She let him in and led him to a back room. “You sure about this?” she asked.

                Marcoh nodded. There was no denying that he was a little nervous. He naturally tended to the modest side of things. On the other hand, it was only a few months prior that he’d had to tromp through Central City wearing nothing more than Scar’s overcoat, and that had done quite a bit to get him through his embarrassment. “I’m willing,” he said.

                Madam Christmas handed him a small bag. Marcoh opened it and pulled out a hot pink thong. He made a face, and Madam Christmas guffawed again. “The bag is complimentary. Think of it as a starter pack. You’ll liable to get a client that wants you to wear that, but you can start out with the clothes you have on. You’ll also need to wear this.” She took something off of a shelf and handed it to Marcoh. It was a mask, completely blank. When he put it on and said something, he was delighted to discover that despite the mouth hole, the contours of the mask distorted his voice.

                “This will be perfect,” he said. With his face hidden and his voice disguised, the chance of being recognized was decreased.

                “You can leave it on the whole time,” Madam Christmas told him casually. When he turned his face to her, she chuckled. “Do you think you’re my first employee with cause not to be recognized? Don’t worry; you keeping the mask on will be part of the ground rules.”

                He and Madam Christmas worked out the specifics of the rules and how much he’d be making per client, and Marcoh grew more excited about the job. What would have taken him weeks to earn working as a dishwasher he’d be able to make in a few days working at the brothel. “All right,” he said. “I believe that I’m ready.”

                Madam Christmas showed him the room he’d be working from. There was a cushy bed and an attached bathroom, as well as a dresser and a nightstand. A picture on one wall swung away to reveal a safe. Marcoh settled on the bed and had to stop himself from promptly falling asleep; it was much better accommodations than he’d had in months. There was a knock on the door, and then it opened to reveal his first client.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might ask how an idea for a fan fic where Scar gets sick and Marcoh takes care of him turned into a fan fiction where Marcoh gets a job at a brothel, but a better question is how Little Me even saw an R rated movie like Deuce Bigalow in the first place.


	2. Alex Louis Armstrong

                The door was thrust open forcefully, and Major Alex Armstrong strode into the room. There was a bottle of oil clutched in his right hand.

                “Major Armstrong!” Marcoh said without thinking.

                Major Armstrong looked around shiftily. “Who’s Major Armstrong?”

                “Certainly not you!” Marcoh assured him, remembering what Madam Christmas had said about the anonymity of his clients. He refrained from mentioning that the Armstrongs were a well-known family whose pictures routinely appeared in the newspapers -- and in the tabloids, in Major Armstrong’s case. Marcoh supposed the rags had been more on the mark than usual.

                “That’s right!” Major Armstrong agreed. “I am John. That is my name.”

                “All right, John,” Marcoh said. “You pay half up front and half afterward. What would you like?”

                Major Armstrong set money down on the dresser, but then he merely stammered, “Oh…um…”

                Marcoh frowned behind his mask. Maybe he’d given the tabloids more credit than they were due. With Major Armstrong being his first client, Marcoh was the rookiest of rookies, and perhaps his next question was the wrong approach, but he was eager to get paid in full. “You are homosexual, correct?” he asked, using the terminology of the medical journals that he read.

                “I am mostly certainly not!” Major Armstrong shouted.

                “Oh,” Marcoh said.

                “I don’t know the meaning of the word homosexual,” Major Armstrong declared, “and I certainly don’t harbor lustful thoughts about men!”

                “ _Oh._ ” Marcoh said again.

                “Just because you have erotic dreams about Dublith butchers or visit a man in a house of ill repute, doesn’t mean-“ Major Armstrong sputtered. “What’s the opposite of homosexual?”

                “Heterosexual,” Marcoh answered.

                “I’m that one,” Major Armstrong said firmly.

                “Of course you are,” Marcoh assured him. He thought he knew how to proceed from here. “Now what completely heterosexual activity would you like to pay me to engage in with you?”

                Major Armstrong held out the bottle of oil. “I want you to rub this on my muscles.” Marcoh took the bottle of oil, and Major Armstrong stripped down to his underwear. There was no doubt that Major Armstrong had a considerable amount of muscles.

                “Anything else?” Marcoh asked.

                Major Armstrong looked embarrassed.

                “It’s okay,” Marcoh said. “This is what you’re paying me for.”

                “Take off your shirt,” Major Armstrong said. Marcoh did so, and Major Armstrong eyes his build critically. “No, never mind. Put your shirt back on. You barely have any muscles at all.”

                “Sorry,” Marcoh said, as he began applying the oil to Major Armstrong’s body.

                “You should exercise more,” Major Armstrong scolded him.

                “I’ll take that into consideration,” Marcoh assured him. He moved to applying the oil to Major Armstrong’s left bicep. “You know,” Marcoh said, “the best medical research shows there’s not actually anything dangerous about homosexuality. I know it doesn’t apply to you, _of course_ , but I thought that you should know. You know, in case you meet anyone who is.”

                Major Armstrong stared straight ahead. “I’ll remember that if I ever meet a homosexual.”

                Marcoh fell silent as he continued his work. He had tried. When he finished, he gave Major Armstrong back his bottle, and Major Armstrong gave him the rest of the money. Then Major Armstrong left, his clothes bundled in his arms. Marcoh stored in the money in the safe and then waited for his next customer. Although he didn’t know it, things were about to get a lot stranger.


	3. Greed the Avaricious

                When the door opened and Marcoh’s second client for the night entered, he sat up with a start. A Xingese teenager walked into the room. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, but he carried himself with the composure of someone much older. Nevertheless, he was a minor and so clearly in the wrong place.

                “Excuse me, you man,” Marcoh said, getting off the bed, “Are you lost?”

                “This is a brothel, right? And you’re a prostitute, yeah?” the Xingese boy asked.

                “It is,” Marcoh said. “I am.”

                “Then I’m in the right place.”

                Marcoh gave him a gentle smile, only to realize that the boy couldn’t see it behind his mask. “How old are you?”

                “That depends on how you look at it,” said the Xingese boy glibly. “I’ve often been told I look twenty-five.”

                Marcoh put his hands on his hips. “Young man, you are most definitely not twenty-five. Even if that you were that age, I’m a good deal older than that. God, you look like an absolutely baby compared to me.”

                “Fine,” the Xingese boy said, raking his hand through is hair. “I’m not twenty-five.” As he did so, Marcoh spied the ouroboros on the back of his hand. His heart caught in his throat as he realized that he was dealing with a homunculus. He was grateful for the mask, as it made it easier for him to play it cool.

                The door opened right then, and Edward Elric burst in. “Greed!” said Ed, breathless. Marcoh considered calling out to him, but he held his tongue. Scar’s safety was too important to risk on a gamble. If it had been Ed alone, Marcoh would have spoken, but he did not know how Ed had come to be in cohorts with a homunculus.

                “You’re cramping my game,” Greed said, annoyed.

                “But Greed,” Ed said, “this is a den of iniquity. We’re not supposed to be here.”

                “This isn’t my first time in a brothel,” Greed said.

                “Well, I’m not supposed to be here,” Ed said. “Winry would kill me if she knew!”

                “Fine, then leave,” Greed said.

                “What are you going to do?” Ed asked, not leaving.

                “Him,” Greed said, jerking his head toward Marcoh. “If he’ll let me. Then I’m going to have all the other prostitutes on the premise. And _then_ , I’m going to seduce the proprietor.”

                “Your money isn’t worthy my integrity,” Marcoh said firmly. “You’re underage.”

                “What money?” Ed asked suspiciously.

                Greed pouted. “I was hoping to trade on my pretty face.”

                “You can’t take a pretty face to the bank,” Marcoh said. “Now scram. I have paying customers to see.”

                Ed took Greed by the arm and began to maneuver him out of the room. “Come on, let’s go,” Ed said.

                “But I’m Greed the Avaricious,” Greed whined. “I want everything!”

                “Not today,” Ed said.

                “Can’t I at least try my charms on the proprietor?” Greed asked.

                “No,” Ed said firmly as they left room. “The Führer’s been spotted in the neighborhood. That’s why I came up here. We need to beat it.”

                The door shut behind them, and Marcoh waited for his next customer to arrive. Hopefully, they’d have money.


	4. Roy Mustang

                When the door opened to admit Marcoh’s third client for the night, Colonel Roy Mustang walked in. This time, Marcoh had the sense not to call out his name. Certainly, Colonel Mustang was nearly as well-known as Major Armstrong, but the rule was that every client could be named John if they wished.

                “Good evening,” Marcoh said as Colonel Mustang put down half the money on the dresser like a pro. “What can I do for you?” It made sense that so many of his clients would be State Alchemists; being a dog of the military paid well, as Marcoh well knew. On one hand, that was risky. On the other hand, well, they had money to blow.

                “I’m here about Scar,” Colonel Mustang said. “Do you know him?”

                Marcoh’s throat went dry. “Oh, um, yes. I mean, not personally, of course. But I’ve heard of him. Scary fellow, isn’t he?” Marcoh was aware that he was babbling, but he was in a state of near panic.

                “I’d hardly expect you to know him personally,” Colonel Mustang said, pursing his lips. “I’m responsible for apprehending him. He’s been a real thorn in my side.” Marcoh tried to stop his hands from fidgeting. He also tried to think through the situation logically and rationally. Colonel Mustang didn’t know who he was, and he would have no reason to suspect Marcoh would be traveling with Scar. So what reason would Colonel Mustang have to visit a _brothel_ and then bring up _Scar_?

                Realization suddenly struck Marcoh. “Did you want to do some sort of role play? Are you asking me to pretend to be Scar? Is this a fantasy where you’ve captured Scar and have him at your mercy, or are you into a role reversal thing where Scar has you at _his_ mercy and abruptly orders you to take off all of your clothes?” When it came to the latter, that tracked with Marcoh’s own experiences. It had taken him time to adjust to Scar’s poor communication skills.

                Colonel Mustang tilted his head to the side. “No-o,” he said slowly. “I’m asking you to keep your ears out. I’m trying to put Scar away, but to do that, I have to find him. Ask enough people to find someone, and eventually one of them will get lucky.”

                “Oh,” Marcoh said, finally understanding.

                “Madam Christmas knows how to contact me,” Colonel Mustang said. “You bring me information about Scar I can act on, and it’ll be worth a lot to you.”

                “I will do that,” Marcoh lied.

                “Excellent,” Colonel Mustang said. “Now, I paid for the full time, so I’d like to get my money’s worth.”

                “Absolutely,” Marcoh said. “What would you like?”

                “My feet,” Colonel Mustang said.

                “Ah,” Marcoh said. “You have a foot fetish.”

                “No,” Colonel Mustang explained, “I have bunions.” He sniffed. “My lieutenant won’t take care of them, so I have to pay someone to deal with them. I brought a kit.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small kit, which he handed to Marcoh. Marcoh took it and then got down on his knees. He set the kit down and began unlacing Colonel Mustang’s boots. For Scar, he’d endure any ignobility. Even this.


	5. King Bradley

                Mustang had only been gone five minutes when the door opened again, and Führer President King Bradley strode in. Marcoh stared at him from behind his mask. State Alchemists were one thing, but he had not expected to have the dictator of the country as a client. He forced himself to take deep breaths, and he reminded himself that Bradley didn’t know who he was. It might be awkward, but it would mean money for Scar’s medicine.

                “You can put the money on the dresser,” Marcoh instructed. “It’s half up front and half at the end.”

                “I’m not here for that,” Bradley snapped.

                Marcoh tried not to panic. “What other reason would you come to a brothel?” Marcoh asked nervously. He reassured himself that he wasn’t behaving suspiciously. King Bradley was more well-known than even Major Armstrong, and any prostitute would be a bit on edge to have him as a client.

                “What did Mustang want?”

                “What?” Marcoh asked.

                “I know that Colonel Mustang was in here before me,” Bradley said tersely. “I doubt he was here for your tender comforts. So what did he want?”

                Marcoh froze. He didn’t know what game Mustang and Bradley were playing with each other, and he wasn’t happy to be caught in the middle of it. Most of all, he didn’t want to bring Scar into it. Bradley grew impatient.

                “Answer me, or I’ll have you hung from your toes in the town square.”

                Marcoh steeled himself. “This is a brothel, Führer President _John_. The last John who visited me wanted what all of my clients want – sex.”

                “Really?”

                “What other reason would a man have to visit a prostitute at a brothel?”

                “To get information about their previous client,” Bradley said pointedly.

                “Wasn’t the case,” Marcoh said honestly.

                “So what did you do?”

                “Excuse me?”

                “I want details.”

                “That’s going to cost you,” Marcoh said.

                “You want me to pay for information?” Bradley asked. He paused and then put the money on the table. Marcoh nodded.

                “I gave my last client the twisted spiral,” Marcoh lied. “That one’s very popular. We did the up-and-down and the around-the-clown, and I gave him the Drachman special. I finished off with the Double Freddie.”

                Bradley eyed him doubtfully. “You performed the Double Freddie by yourself?”

                “I’m very good at my job,” Marcoh bragged and then added brazenly. “Would you like me to demonstrate?”

                “Hmph,” Bradley said. “I’m a married man, as you are well aware.”

                Marcoh let out a sigh of relief as Bradley finally left, convinced if not satisfied. However, Marcoh only barely had time to put the money away before the door opened again, and his next client entered.


	6. Mrs. Bradley

                Marcoh stared in shock as Mrs. Bradley, First Lady of Amestris, took a hesitant step into the room. This was not going to be a fun conversation. There was zero chance that Marcoh was going to do something as risky as sleep with King Bradley’s wife.

                “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” Marcoh said, “but I’m afraid I cannot have you as a client.”

                “You had my husband as a client,” Mrs. Bradley said. The composure she had up until that point broke, and she fished a handkerchief out of her pocket to wipe away her tears.

                “Oh, no, you have the wrong idea,” Marcoh said, but Mrs. Bradley wasn’t listening.

                “He always said he was a butt guy,” Mrs. Bradley sobbed, “but I never thought…I never imagined…” She was crying too hard to be intelligible.

                Marcoh creeped over to her and patted her comfortingly on the shoulder. “There, there,” he assured her. “It’s okay.”

                “How can it be okay?” Mrs. Bradley wailed. “All those times I smacked him on the hinny with the egg beater and called him a naughty boy, my husband – the love of my life – was imagining or wishing that I was a man!”

                “That’s-” Marcoh started. For one thing, that was more information than he needed to know. He finally found his words and attempted to regain control of the conversation. “That’s not true,” he said. “Look, I offered your husband the Double Freddie.”

                “What? By yourself?” Curiosity had temporarily beaten back Mrs. Bradley’s grief.

                “Yup. And do you know what he said? He declined, stating that he was a married man.”

                “You offered to do the Double Freddie by yourself, and my husband turned you down?” Mrs. Bradley asked.

                “That is correct. So you needn’t to worry.”

                “Then…then why was he here?”

                “He was trying to meet up with Mustang,” Marcoh said.

                “Why was Mustang here?”

                “Oh,” Marcoh said airily, “the Double Freddie.”

                “Did my husband succeed in meeting up with Mustang?” Mrs. Bradley asked.

                “No, they just missed each other.”

                “Do…do you think it’s possible that maybe my husband likes oysters, as well as salami?” Mrs. Bradley asked tentatively.

                “I think that’s a real possibility,” Marcoh said. In truth, he didn’t know what she meant. He had had a long day, after all, and the hour was growing late. Still, his words seemed to reassure Mrs. Bradley.

                “The Flame Alchemist is a rather handsome young man,” Mrs. Bradley remarked.

                “Certainly,” Marcoh said. Although not if one got down low enough, he reflected, remembering Mustang’s feet with a shudder.

                Mrs. Bradley suddenly head to the door. “That’s settled then. If the love of my life requires salami as well as oysters, I will speak to Colonel Mustang about joining us in our bedroom. Oh, my husband’s going to be so happy. Thank you so much, Mr. Prostitute.”

                “Wait, what?” Marcoh said, but Mrs. Bradley was already gone.


	7. Solf J. Kimblee

~~~~When the door opened to allow admittance to Marcoh’s next customer, it was Major Solf J. Kimblee who entered. Marcoh swallowed hard. Kimblee must have seen because he said, “You can relax. The proprietor made it very clear that I’m not allowed to strangle the prostitutes.” He rolled his eyes here. Kimblee laid money on the dresser, and Marcoh hardened his resolve. Whatever Kimblee wanted, it would be worth it to obtain the funds for Scar’s medicine.

                “So…” Kimblee drawled, “if I understand this correctly, you’re mine?”

                “For the duration you paid for,” Marcoh said. “Madam Christmas should have gone over the rates. And the ground rules.”

                “She did,” Kimblee said lazily. He opened the door to the room, stepped outside briefly, and returned with a trunk on wheels. Marcoh stared at it, wondering what it contained. He had a number of ideas.

                “What are you into?” Marcoh asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

                “Outfits,” Kimblee said.

                “I see,” Marcoh said. “Well, I’ll be happy to wear whatever you wish.”

                Kimblee frowned at him. “Like I’d let a filthy degenerate like you touch any of my beautiful suits. The clothes are for me. You shan’t be wearing anything.”

                “Shall I disrobe then?” Marcoh asked.

                “What? Oh, no. Please keep all your clothes on. I just want you for your eyes.”

                “My…um…eyes?” Marcoh asked. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific.”

                Kimblee tapped his foot like Marcoh was a particularly slow student. “There’s no point in being stylish if you have no one to appreciate you. Now, turn around. I’m going to put the first one on.”

                Marcoh did as he was bidden. With his back to Kimblee, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up on end, but the only sound he heard was the rustle of cloth.

                “Turn around,” Kimblee ordered.

                When Marcoh was facing him again, he saw that Kimblee was glad head to toe in a crimson tuxedo. The outfit came complete with a waistcoat (which Marcoh saw held Kimblee’s State Alchemist pocket watch), a cravat, and a top hat with a ribbon and bow on it.

                “Well?” Kimblee asked impatiently.

                “Oh, right,” Marcoh said. “Sorry, I was just taken aback. You look absolutely radiant.”

                “Oh, that’s nice,” Kimblee said. “Now turn around. I’m going to put the next one on.” When Marcoh’s back was turned, Kimblee began speaking again. “I’m so glad I stopped in here. Work’s been tough.”

                “Is that so?” Marcoh asked, his voice coming out an octave higher than he intended.

                “Very much so,” Kimblee said. “See, there’s this traitor, a doctor by the name of Tim Marcoh. And we were all thinking that he faked his death to help out that Ishvalan. So I was supposed to bring him back and handle his punishment.”

                Marcoh made a non-committal sound as a response. Kimblee continued speaking. Marcoh strained his ears to discern if Kimblee was coming closer.  

                “The best part was that there’s a whole town full of people I was going to get to maim and kill in front of him.”

                Marcoh began scanning the room to find something that he could use to make a transformation circle. He was also recalling where the exits of the building were. If Kimblee was toying with him, he might have brought back up. Marcoh thought he could take Kimblee if it came to it, but he’d have no chance of fighting a small battalion.

                Kimblee continued speaking uninterrupted. “But then it turns out that Scar really did smash his face in.”

                “Uh…I’m sorry to hear that,” Marcoh managed.

                “I appreciate it,” Kimblee said. “With him actually dead, destroying the village got nixed. It was a really bummer.”

                “Uh…uh…” Marcoh stammered. Internally, he cheered. His village was safe.

                “Turn around,” Kimblee said. Marcoh did so. This suit was canary yellow with diagonal orange stripes and an orange ascot. “People who harbor traitors are traitors themselves,” Kimblee said. “They would have deserved to die if His Excellency had ordered it. Now, how do I look?”

                “Like the sun,” Marcoh said. It came out as a whisper and he hastily added at normal tones. “Sorry. I’m overcome by your presence. You are truly one of a kind.”

                “I’m aware,” Kimblee said. “Now, around you go. I’m going to put the next one on.”

                Marcoh found that the trunk held a great deal of clothes. There were fedoras and trilbies and top hats. There were ties and bow ties and cravats and ascots. There were double breasted waist coats and waistcoats with only a single button. The outfits came in all of the colors of the rainbow, and the gracious compliments dribbled off of Marcoh’s tongue until Kimblee’s time was up. When that happened, Kimblee deposited the rest of the money. Marcoh quickly stored the money away and then collapsed on the bed in relief. He was still there when the door opened to admit his next client.

~~~~


	8. Garfiel

Chapter 8

                The man who walked into the room was wearing a dress. It had a low cut and came down to a little past his knees. Whoever the tailor was, they’d earned their pay; the dress fit the man perfectly. Marcoh sat up on the bed abruptly and fervently hoped that the man wanted something normal, like fellation.

                “Rough night?” the man asked.

                “Definitely,” Marcoh said.

                The man held out a hand. “I’m Garfiel.”

                “You’re allowed to just be John,” Marcoh said, shaking his hand.

                “But I wish to be Garfiel.”

                “What would you like?” Marcoh said. “It’s half up front and half at the end. Just leave the money on the dresser over there.”

                “I don’t want anything,” Garfiel said, “other than to give you this.” He handed a bulging purse to Marcoh. When he opened it, he saw that it held a great deal of money.

                “But…why?”

                Garfiel smiled at him. “I won’t begrudge Madam Christmas her business, but I’m loathe to see a man working a room here out of desperation. They say money won’t buy happiness, but in my experience, it can fix a great number of problems.”

                “Absolutely!” Marcoh said. “Thank you so much!” Between what he’d earned and what Garfiel had given him, he’d have money for Scar’s medicine, plus extra for expenses.

                “You can talk about it with me,” Garfiel said. “If you want to, I mean. I don’t need to pry in another man’s business, but sometimes talking about it can help.”

                “You’re very kind,” Marcoh said. He hesitated and then added. “I need medicine.”

                “You’re sick?”

                “No, not for me.”

                “Ah, for your lover?”

                “He’s not my lover.”

                “Just friends then?”

                The corners of Marcoh’s mouth turned upward in a sad smile, although of course Garfiel couldn’t see that. “I don’t have the right to call myself his friend, after what I did. But I’ll be happy to help him get better.”

                “Then I wish you the best.”

                “Er…are you sure you don’t want anything? You’ve been terribly generous.”

                “Oh, honey,” Garfiel bragged, “I’ve never had to pay for it. But if you ever want to look me up another time, I run Atelier Garfiel in Rush Valley.” With a wink and a laugh, he left Marcoh with the purse.


	9. Epilogue

                Marcoh collected all of his funds and tucked them carefully into the bag that Madam Christmas had given him. Then he headed downstairs.

                “I’m heading out,” he told her, returning the mask to her. 

                “And you won’t be back?” she suggested. She chuckled when she saw his surprised expression. “I saw who you had for customers. You had quite a night. Besides, this isn’t the first time Garfiel’s generosity had cost me a man.”

                “Thank you for the job,” Marcoh said.

                “Have a good life then,” Madam Christmas said.

                By the time Marcoh reached the lab, the sun was just beginning to come up over the horizon. He approached the first lab assistant to arrive for the day and exchanged a large sum of money for the medicine and zero questions asked. Then he bought some supplies and returned to the abandoned building. There, he woke Scar and made him take the first dose of medicine, along with some food.

                Marcoh smiled after Scar had finished. “It’ll take a few doses before you start feeling better, and you have to keep taking it even then, until it’s all gone. It’s best taken with food, and I was advised to get you some yogurt. If you don’t mind, I’m going to take a nap first, and then I’ll run out and get that.”

                “Have you been up all night?” Scar asked.

                In response, Marcoh face planted on the floor and fell asleep immediately. Scar slept some more, as well. When he awoke, Marcoh was still out. Scar found that his appetite had returned, so he opened up Marcoh’s bag in hopes of finding a snack. Frowning, he reached into it and pulled out a hot pink thong.

                “What the Hell?” he swore, staring at Marcoh’s still sleeping form in confusion.


End file.
